03/17/2014

RIP: Ted Cohen

Ted Cohen, a former President of the American Philosophical Association (Central Division), the author of the unexpected hit, Jokes, and the winner (among many other distinctions) of a Pushcart prize for this brilliant piece (and it's not just about baseball), died a few days ago. Within the profession he is probably best known for his work in aesthetics. He was influenced by Wittgenstein and Cavell, although unlike many so influenced not prone to discipleship. At Chicago, this little man was known as the (great) soul of The Great Latke-Hamantash Debate.

I took, I think, my first graduate course at Chicago with Ted. It was not love at first sight. We didn't find each other funny, and I thought he used his class room charisma and humor to avoid investigating the weaknesses of his own certainties. [UPDATED: But, see also Sara Bernstein's take on his teaching: "I also learned the pedagogical art of birdwalking– shifting to a different topic to grab students’ attention, and then pulling them back in after grabbing it.”] As the years went by, I became more fond of him. He was, in fact, a very subtle philosopher and a masterful interpreter of David Hume (and judging by our correspondence, kept correcting my readings well after graduate school).

In my last year or two in graduate school, we found ourselves hanging out more regularly at Classics cafe and the Bonjour bakery. I found his diatribes against Wagner amusing, especially because I continue to share in the prejudice. Initially, I thought he had grown more fond of me because of my weekly departmental IM basketball reports; he appreciated good sports writing (especially baseball), after all, and in these I made gentle fun of his colleagues. At one point, he confided that, in fact, it was nothing about me; his favorite graduate students had all left Hyde Park.

Much to my surprise, over time, I started to believe that Ted was, in fact, wise. I can't offer compelling evidence of this one way or another. But since I am now also a PhD supervisor, his words on the subject ring true to me:

No doubt I told you many times that for years I regarded [deleted--ES] and me as the Department's two worst dissertation directors, [deleted] because he requires too much, and me because I require too little. I admit it, but my motives are good: I think it's imperative for students to stop being students, to find their voices and stop writing, artificially, as I see it, for their directors. To the observation that the thesis could be better, I say, right, turn it in, get the degree, and then make it better.

But then what do I know?

Much of my post-Chicago correspondence with him is one of us apologizing to the other for missing a visit by the other sprinkled with his encouragement and jokes. [UPDATE: For MORE REMINISCENCES ABOUT TED SEE HERE .] I leave you with a joke that Ted was particularly eager to make sure that I was familiar with it:

While the two Dutchmen are talking an Englishman rides up on a bicycle and asks directions in English.

They don't understand.

He asks again, this time in German.

They don't understand.

He asks once again, this time in French.

They still don't understand.

The Englishman rides away.

One of the Dutchmen says, "You know, I've been thinking of learning another language."

"Why would you do that?"

"I think it would be useful."

"Useful? That fellow on the bicycle new three languages, and it didn't do him any good."

Comments

You can follow this conversation by subscribing to the comment feed for this post.

Thanks for the reminiscences, Eric. To my present regret, I never even tried to maintain any sort of correspondence with Ted. For some reason, I imagined that our conversation could only be continued *viva voce*, and consequently have only my highly defective memory on which to draw. But the communication that you quote reminds me that Ted could sound unmistakably like himself even in written words.

I have to say, though, that I do not think that Ted would be pleased to see Wittgenstein named as a leading philosophical influence on him. Wittgenstein to him exemplified too much of Germanic obscurantism and self-importance: the influence of the work of J. L. Austin was far stronger. Of course, both Austin and Wittgenstein can be said to have influenced him through the medium of Stanley Cavell, but that influence is itself of a rather indirect and elusive nature, however direct the historical relationship between the two. Cavell was Cohen's dissertation supervisor at Harvard, but, on my understanding of their history (which may be faulty), Ted had already left Harvard to take up his position at Chicago without a dissertation when Cavell joined the faculty at Harvard and became his supervisor. If I have not mistaken my facts, what affinity can be observed between the work of the one and of the other owes more to their having been drawn together by common interests and aspirations than to the influence of teacher upon pupil. As I place Ted in philosophy's history, the two figures contending most strongly for his allegiance were Hume and Kant. He certainly *liked* Hume's way of thinking immeasurably better than he liked Kant's, but I think that he grudgingly recognized Kant as having surpassed Hume in asking the right questions.

Of course, I could not possibly have said such a thing in public with much confidence while Ted was still alive to contradict me; and yet, I am not sure that he would have done so. He might merely have raised some contrary consideration and then added, "But what do I know?"

thanks, miles. i guess i would add that whatever one said to ted needed to be said "with confidence" (feigned or otherwise).

he and i got into some raging arguments when i worked at the quadrangle club, and we disagreed profoundly about the really crucial things, such as baseball. but he made me a better (a relative term, that) philosopher by forcing me to articulate and defend views instead of using fancy words and dropping names,hoping i'd get away with it. which is a technique that works all too often in our profession.

I never took a class with him, but he joined my diss. committee. At our first meeting, he was running late; he came out and gave me a few dollars and asked me to go and buy coffees for us. I was none too pleased with this (having done pink collar work, and resisting making coffee for the guys, for a number of years before being able to go to college). So I left the money in an envelope with a note saying I couldn't stay. After that, Ted asked me to facilitate a philosophy club, with me as grad mentor, and with women undergrads taking the initiative to form and lead the club. It was a sea change for the department at Chicago.

Another time, when my parents visited Chicago, he invited them to lunch at the Quad Club. My parents, who did not have an opportunity to attend college, were struck with Ted's down to earth conversation over lunch. They have always remembered him. To my surprise, when I saw Ted a few years ago at an ASA meeting, he too remembered that lunch. What some might describe as kindness on Ted's part, I would describe as his inherent interest in people -- in their backgrounds, and their views on life.

Long, long time ago (1978), I was Ted's TA, for a summer session at Harvard. It was actually two (short) summer semesters, and I worked my fool head off. I was a film-person, with no degree in Philosophy; only a B.A. in English and Fine Art and an M.A. in Film (NYU), which means nada to philosophers. But Ted was different. He was the kindest professor--when we were grading, he said to students, "You've lucked out. I know the material, and she is very kind. And we agree on everything." Ted and I always got along. He spent hours before and after class teaching me philosophy, and I remember his teaching strategies well. Every time we met, we had wonderful talks--tutorials, in philosophy. No one could tamp down his mind, or his energy. So quick! And that quick nasal voice! I can hear it now. I lucked out: He knew the material (Intro to Philosophy and a seminar on Kant), and . . . I learned it--always kindly--from him.